I Wait

The concrete was cold. 

I was five. I sat on the porch of my mom’s house, dressed in my frilly blue dress and tiara.

Hours passed. My mom tried to get me to come inside.

I knew that if I did, it meant he wasn’t coming.

He never came.

He never called.

He forgot about me.

I waited.

Every other Sunday, he picked me up for a few hours.

He talked about himself, never asking about my life. He often told me about places he took my two older sisters.

Amusement parks.

Movies.

Fishing.

He told me he would take me too one day.

I waited.

When my mom would hit me, I would run to the phone, sobbing.

I begged him to save me. To just get me away from her.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you.”

I kept hoping he’d change his mind.

I waited.

I was ten when a van came over a hill and hit me while I was riding my bike. It struck my side. I flew through the air and hit a tree.

No one rode in the ambulance with me. It took my mom an hour to get there.

I was terrified, but I didn’t cry. I was bruised, but somehow, nothing was broken. When my mom finally came, she left my room several times to call him.

No answer.

He never came.

Later, he brushed it off.

“Well, they didn’t keep her very long anyway.”

I waited.

I went to his house for Christmas when I was thirteen. In one room, my grandma and me, his obligations. In the other, he spent the day with my stepmom and her family.

My stepmom didn’t allow us to be together.

I could hear laughter and presents opening. I watched from the doorway. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.

I waited.

Entering my teenage years, I decided I didn’t want visitation with him anymore.

It was my choice. I was done.

Eventually, my grudge against him felt unwarranted.

I called him to apologize. We went out to dinner. He recounted all the things I had missed.

He had a stroke.

No one told me.

“You’re not immediate family.”

I waited.

When I was nineteen, I moved across the country for someone who would eventually abuse me. I told him in person. He seemed surprised, but he didn’t ask any questions.

“Have fun.”

I wanted him to care that I was leaving.

I waited.

At twenty-seven, my marriage met a brutal end.

I became a single mother to my first two children. I expected him to be on my side. He didn’t believe me. When it seemed like he finally did, he still defended my ex.

I wanted him to change his mind.

Instead, he walked into the courtroom next to my ex, smiling.

I had believed he would always be there to defend me.

I waited.

I stopped trying. I was tired of being hurt and disappointed.

I cut you from my life.

We didn’t speak. Still, I hoped you would reach out. I imagined an apology. An acknowledgment that you had been wrong.

Something that told me losing me mattered to you.

Eleven years passed.

You never did.

I waited.

I was the one who called. I still carried guilt. I still held onto the good memories.

I missed you.

We met at a park. At first, I didn’t recognize you. You were thinner. Frail.

We hugged briefly, awkwardly.

My whole life, you had worn baseball caps. Now you wore a sunhat. You had had skin cancer.

No one told me.

Again.

I waited.

You welcomed me back. Your relationships with my sisters and their families had flourished. My children couldn’t remember who you were. 

I talked up the life I had built without you. My degree. My career. My children.

See?

I still did well without you.

But I wanted you to be proud of me.

I waited.

You wanted me to have relationships with my sisters.

I tried. 

You and my middle sister had the kind of relationship I always wanted with you. You were there when she needed you.

You stood by my oldest sister through some of the hardest parts of her life.

I asked you for help with my relationships with them. You told me they loved me. That I was wrong. That I wasn’t trying hard enough.

I tried harder.

I waited.

We had two years.

When you first went into the hospital, holding your hand felt foreign to me. Physical affection between us had never gone much further than an occasional hug.

My sisters and your wife were involved in your care. When others came to visit, I sat quietly in the corner.

The room filled with people from a life I rarely had a chance to be in.

I waited.

I didn’t feel like I had the right to get involved in your care or your final wishes. But at the very end, the room was quiet. 

I sat beside you.

I held your hand.

You didn’t say anything.

I waited.

At your funeral, I stood with my sisters.

No one really knew I was one of your daughters. They went down the line, exchanging pleasantries until they got to me. They looked me over, trying to understand who I was.

Once again, the room was full of people who knew parts of your life I had never been part of.

I created a video that celebrated you. I chose the pictures. But if you looked closely, I wasn’t in very many of them. I created it, hoping others would think we had a great relationship.

You were my dad.

I waited.

Now that he’s gone, I feel lost.

I needed him to tell me I wasn’t a mistake. I needed him to choose me. I needed him to love me.

Now there is no more time.

The waiting didn’t die with him.

I wait to be accepted. I wait for praise.

I wait to be forgotten. I wait to be left behind.

I wait.

I try to give myself the experiences I missed. I try to create the happy Christmases I watched from another room.

I make excuses when others let me down. I tell myself apologies don’t matter.

I relive my mistakes. I search for an answer. A cause. A reason.

I wait.

I hold my infant son and wonder if he likes me.

He’s only four months old, and I’ve already made mistakes.

I worry he knows that. I worry he resents me for it. 

I want him to favor me. I want him to choose me.

I’m waiting.

At work, I go to great lengths to help the people around me.                         

I take on more responsibility. When something goes wrong, I try to fix it. I try to make myself indispensable.

There is always more to do. More problems to solve.

I worry about what will happen if I stop.

I’m waiting.

My fiancé has shown me that he will be by my side.

Through a rocky start, when I kept pushing him to leave. Through all the times he treated me like a queen, and I still felt unworthy. Through the constant worry that I would do something wrong.

He has seen me at my worst. He has seen the parts of myself I struggle to accept.

And he stayed.

Still, I lie in bed at night and remind myself that he could leave.

I’m waiting.

Stopping would mean validating myself.

Accepting myself. Loving myself. Seeing my flaws and regrets without using them against me.

Accepting that I will make mistakes. That life is not a series of tests I have to pass. That I don’t have to keep proving I deserve to be here.

It would mean being present for my life instead of waiting for what comes next.

I’m still waiting.